


The Gift of Hope

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn receives Andúril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anglachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglachel/gifts).



> Anglachel requested “Any one of: Strider doing ranger scouting or something; Thorongil in armor; Aragorn receiving Andúril”. I chose not to recreate the movie scene with Elrond, as lovely as it is, but to try something different, but that I hope also makes sense. Hope you like it.
> 
> Betaed by jaiden_s - thank you!
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Cerin Amroth, Third Age 3019**

 

 _”Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_  
The crownless again shall be king.”  
The Riddle of Strider (The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, “Strider”)

 

Celebrimbor I am not, and yet I am so very proud of my work when Estel takes the blade in his hand and holds it up against the last light of the day. The gold magic of Cerim Amroth has dimmed, but the blade still shines red and bright. From afar, the first voices rise with the soothing song of the night.

“Elladan,” he starts, but his voice halts before it breaks. His fingers tighten around the blade and the only the smallest flinch in the lines in his eyes betray the sting. He means to kneel before me but I hold him by the shoulder before he completes the motion.

“Kneel before no one. You will be King,” I say. I want to say more, I have advice to give, so many things that I have not told Estel yet, that he needs to know, but I bite my lip and hold myself to the solemnity of the moment. As I rode from home this moment played itself in my imagination in all sorts of manners, from grandiose gestures and words, to absolute silence. The one thing that never changed in these ramblings was the setting. No place could have surpassed Cerin Amroth where Aragorn and my sister had plighted their troth, setting in motion this man’s fate to be king, to fulfill the impossible quest of uniting the two kingdoms, for love, for good and for honor.

“Elladan,” he says again, but tries for no more words. The glint in his eyes, so very bright even as the last light fades suddenly brings back the little boy he once was. For a moment, I want to hold him and kiss the top of his head, this boy that I taught everything about the wild and the hunt and the manner of the warrior, but the man, the leader, the hero replaces the child that was mine, too.

I hold out my hand to clasp Aragorn’s arm, but he pulls me in for an embrace, the kind that his kin so favors, tight, warm, sincere, and so very full of the things that cannot be said lest we become maudlin.

He is the first to step back. “Andúril, Flame of the West,” he says, holding it up between us, gazing at the seven stars, the crescent moon, the bursting sun. The metal now shines with the cold light of the first stars. “You shall honor Narsil,” he whispers running his fingers up the blade.

Flame of the West. Yes, wise choice, the flame that will light your way in the growing darkness and that, I am sure, will be in your hand when you finally defeat the Enemy. For I am sure that this man, my brother, my friend, my son, will be the one. Him and his strange company, despite the first loss, despite the odds will be the ones who will forever vanquish this evil, and for this, I took the shards of Narsil and forged the broken sword, following the secret writings of Celebrimbor saved from Ost-en-Edil even before my father had first set eyes on my mother. I lit the fires hotter than they ever had been set in Imladris, and hammered away my life force into the glowing metal, turning it, cooling it, heating it up again and again and again until my brother said, “It is time.”

And here we came in secret, into my kin’s land, under the golden canopy of the Lady, that fey being to whom I never feel close and never feel distant. Aragorn will be made king also through her, for I know that in her heart she also prays and emanates her strength and faith and hope into this cause.

“Elladan,” Aragorn says, lowering Andúril. “This gift has no price.”

“It is your birthright and your heirloom,” I say.

“You know of what gift I speak of,” he calmly replies.

I nod. “I know. You have our faith and you will have my sword arm when the time comes. You will be King of Arnor and Gondor.”

“When did you…?” Aragorn inquires.

“We scouted up to the Misties, then we flew back to Imladris. Elrohir thought I was mad or intent on killing the horses but the signs were too strong to ignore. It was high time you had it,” I explain.

“Gandalf has passed,” he quietly says. I am not sure if the first taint of uncertainty is touching him or if he merely states a fact.

“I heard from the Galadhrim at the border. Bad news travel swiftly… Doubt not,” I add, as an afterthought.

“I do doubt, but I do not let fear be the mind killer, the wilting of the will. You taught me that.”

I almost smile. This man is my pride. “What do you need of us?” I ask, motioning my head to the shadows, where my brother waits.

“We hold ourselves to the plan, for now. The _periannath_ are remarkably resilient, but I tell you nothing new. Frodo has been tested, and even as we speak, the Lady tests him again, as she has all of us. I dare to have faith.” Aragorn looks into my eyes. “If it takes my life, I will live up to all that you have brought me up to be.”

“And more,” I add. 

He nods. “Please give my thanks to Lord Elrond.”

“I will. Elrohir,” I call into the shadows. My brother comes and clasps Aragorn’s arm, only to be pulled into an embrace as tight as the one I have earned before.

We stand in silence for a moment, until nearby voices distract us. 

“Well, little brother, how fare you?” Elrohir inquires, breaking the solemnness of the moment.

“Better now, that I have both of you here, if only for a few days.”

We walk away, threading toward the lights that lead the way into the heart of Caras Galadhon, the subtle scent of _elanor_ and _niphredil_ giving way to the more robust aroma of the _mellyrn_ leaves. We talk, and later we dine alone. Elrohir is off on his errand. When the first rays of sun make their way through the foliage, he returns.

“How is it going?” I ask him.

“It is going.” He smiles and Aragorn does not ask.

We meet again, only much later, the night before Aragorn leaves with the Company now of Eight. Elrohir offers him the scabbard he has made for Andúril.

“Here, brother,” he says. “Made in Imladris, for you, finished here.”

Aragorn regards the flowers and leaves and the tengwar spelling “Andúril” and its lineage. “I am betting you did more than embroidery in this scabbard,” he says.

Elrohir smiles, almost laughs. My brother calls me a brooder, but he has no sense of property. “Yes,” he replies, remarkably staid. “There is an enchantment upon the scabbard, courtesy of Grandmamma’s, so that the blade that is drawn cannot be stained or broken, even in defeat. Also, I must confess, I had a little help with the embroidery, jewel castings and engravings. Lórien also deposits their prayers, faith and hope in you.”

Aragorn slightly bows his head to Elrohir, then to me. “Thank you.”

“Till we meet again,” Elrohir says. I second him. “Till we meet again.” 

_Finis  
October 2014_


End file.
